Experiments
by FaroreWorldshaper
Summary: Regarding the several experiments done by Sherlock Holmes. Because it's socially acceptable to tie-die tee shirts with blood, right? NOTE-Updates irregularly. Sorry.
1. Regarding the Tie-Die Tees

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

John came home one day in a good mood. It was bright, sunny, and had been an easy day at the clinic. He felt like nothing could ruin his day. That's when he stepped into the flat he shared with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room. His hands were covered with latex gloves which had turned red, and two large vats stood in front of him. They were full of a red liquid. Perhaps the strangest thing was the amount of white tee shirts, neatly folded in stacks on the couch. For a little while, John stood stunned. Then he asked, "Sherlock… what are you doing?" Sherlock looked up. "Oh, John! Hello! I'm tie-dyeing some shirts with blood and some with red dye. I'm looking for the differences between the colors." he explained cheerily. John had stopped listening at _blood. _"Sherlock… where did you get enough blood to dye shirts?! Why are you tie-dyeing shirts with _blood? _Have you got any on the carpet?"Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Honestly, John, it's not a big deal! I got the blood from St. Bart's. It's for the case-you remember how the dentist we spoke to had a strangely large amount of red tie-die shirts? I believe he is the killer, and tie-dyed his shirts in his victim's blood-hence, this experiment. Also," he added, "I've been careful not to get any on the carpet. Mrs. Hudson _would _definitely kill me otherwise." Slightly relieved that his flat mate wasn't a vampire/serial killer, John walked over and peered in the vat, seeing several rubber-banded tees. "So, what's the difference so far?" "I've hung some outside to dry; let's go see them. Wait here a moment!" With that final remark, Sherlock took off his gloves, tossed them at John, and sprang upstairs. He returned with a notebook covered in red handprints. "Sherlock," John said very quietly, "Do not throw blood-covered latex gloves at me. Ever." "Not good?" "Really not good, yeah." Sherlock didn't look repentant at all, but shrugged and said, "You didn't get it on the carpet, did you?"

John sighed and closed his eyes. When they were open again, Sherlock had already sprung downstairs. John followed.

Later that day, after the killer had been brought in, John had went back to the flat to find that all the tie-die shirts were gone; he thought nothing of it.

For Christmas that year, everyone Sherlock knew received a red tie-die tee shirt. No one really knew why John was laughing his head off, why Sherlock was smirking, or why those who Sherlock disliked received tees with a slightly different hue of red.

**Do you think Sherlock would have given his friends the blood shirts, or his enemies?**

**Prompts for future experiments welcome! Please review.**


	2. Regarding the Clams

**Disclaimer: I own nothing at all.**

**Here's why John missed a whole Wednesday once.**

Sherlock was making dinner Tuesday night. John found this out near the tail end of his shift, when he received a text from the consulting detective- _Are you allergic to shellfish?-SH_

He was at first rather puzzled by this, but decided to respond anyways. _No, why do you ask? _he replied. He got a response quickly. _I'm making dinner tonight.-SH _John looked at this for a moment, then laughed. He was fairly certain Sherlock making dinner would be very amusing, so he typed back, _I'll be sure to be back in time. _He chuckled to himself as he put his phone away. Sherlock making shellfish! He would have to be prepared to order Chinese if he saw smoke from a block away.

When John got home that evening, there was no smoke pouring out of 221B. He raised his eyebrows as he unlocked the door-something actually smelled pretty tasty. He walked into the dining room and stopped. "Wow, Sherlock, you… made this? All by yourself?" On the table was a serving dish with clams in what appeared to be a red sauce. It smelled _fabulous. _Sherlock nodded absentmindedly, in his 'thinking' pose on a chair. "Yes." "I didn't know you knew how to cook…" John trailed off and sat down. Sherlock then seemed to snap out of whatever reverie he was in, saying "Sit down. Here, let me serve you." John was startled by Sherlock's… kindness. But Sherlock didn't do nice, right? "Uh, sure?" was all he said.

Sherlock served two plates of food, serving John first. He seemed to be watching John carefully, and John realized he was probably looking for feedback to the food. "It's fabulous, Sherlock." It really was, especially the clams. Sherlock smiled for the briefest of moments. "So… why did you cook dinner?" John had really been wondering this, and it seemed like a good way to keep out an awkward silence. Sherlock shrugged, seeming nonchalant. "I was bored." That seemed like the only answer John would get, so he just kept eating. He suddenly realized, Sherlock hadn't touched his food. "Why aren't you eating, Sherlock? You made it-so you know that it's not like it's poisoned or anything," he joked.

Then had a horrible thought.

"Sherlock… You didn't…"

The last thing he saw before passing out was Sherlock's slightly guilty face.

Sherlock had been thinking, mulling over his latest case. It frustrated him to no end. He couldn't tell how the hallucinatory drug the murderer had used actually affected people without a patient. He probably wouldn't be able to make records if he tried it on himself, and John would be no help… _John! That's it!_

Sherlock was rather good at making food; he had learned once while undercover at a fancy French restaurant how to make stellar clams. So, the plan was fairly easy-_make recipe, dilute liberal amounts of powdered drug into red sauce, add John Watson, take notes. _Easy enough. Only when John actually toppled over, paralyzed by the drug's effects, did he realize he probably should have asked before putting John into an experiment. _Oops. Oh well. _He quietly cleared the table, cleaned the kitchen, then dragged John onto the couch and retrieved his notebook he used for experiments on drugs (Cocaine and heroine were the only recreational drugs, the rest were from 'proper' experiments). After two hours and a half from the time of ingestion, he noticed John was stirring. Suddenly he opened his eyes. "Nnrgh… Mrglfrghn…" his pupils were dilated and he had trouble moving his mouth. "John, what do you see?" he asked softly. "Xgllthl… prmmlk… pink…" he mumbled. "Pink… elephants…" Sherlock recorded everything, the entire conversation he had, as well as physical side effects (trembling hand, paralysis, etc.) and the emotions he seemed to display. Over the course of the night, he found that the subject seemed to experience euphoria, as well as hallucinations of fantastical creatures and scenarios and drowsiness. By the time morning came, he had a list of effects the drug had on a participant. He was slightly anxious when John hand't yet recovered by the time sunlight was streaming through the window.

But he had made a new discovery. "Light…" muttered John. "It's… mrmph…waaaay too bright…" he tried to put his hand over his eyes, but the paralysis prevented that. Sherlock, interested, grabbed his notebook again. "What else does the light do, John?"

By four o'clock in the afternoon, Sherlock had made several interesting discoveries. Yes, the subject retained some memory, but mostly happy ones. The light, however, triggered negativity in the subject, and John even hallucinated about Afghanistan for a short time. The subject would answer any questions it was asked truthfully, though sometimes it couldn't recall the memory. It was approximately half-past four when John suddenly went unconscious again. He was either asleep or just unconscious for most of the time after that, waking and being almost lucid around eight. At eight forty-five, he fell back to sleep, and Sherlock realized the drug had finally run it's course. _He ought to wake up around midnight, _he thought.

John was trundled into bed, a bucket placed by his bedside and some other clues that would suggest John had been sick abed were put into place. Sure enough, the next morning, John lumbered downstairs, looking puzzled. "Sherlock? What happened?" Sherlock looked up from the newspaper and rolled his eyes. _"Finally. _You must have had a bad reaction to the food-sick as a dog all night, and in a rather nasty state the next day." Sherlock made a show of being exasperated; John took the bait. "Wait… what d'you mean, the next day?" Sherlock looked up, folding the newspaper. "I mean, John, it's Thursday. D'you remember anything of Wednesday?" John looked shocked, and baffled. "Blimey, a whole day? Hmm… No, I really don't recall anything." Sherlock made a mental note to himself to record this in the notebook as he raised his eyebrows. "You're lucky, then," he sighed, "I'm still trying to delete all the _puking. _Ugh." John looked embarrassed. "…Well, thanks for looking after me. Bad clams, eh?" He then promptly went to make tea in the kitchen.

John never did suspect the reason why Sherlock suddenly knew the solution to the case, and Sherlock never thought telling him was important.

**Wow… this took longer than I thought.**

**Please review! Prompts welcome! Thoughts, criticism, all of it.**


	3. Regarding the Horrible Pick-Up Lines

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

John considered himself a morning person. You had to be, in the military. And as long as he had a good cup of tea, it really wasn't that bad. One morning, he was having breakfast when Sherlock, _finally _awake, wandered downstairs in nothing but a sheet. "Any cases?" he asked hopefully. There hadn't been for the past week. "No," said John sympathetically. Sherlock huffed and started towards the cupboard. "You won't find my gun," he added as an afterthought. Sherlock swore. "And no potentially lethal experiments!" John called as his flatmate stomped to the kitchen.

Later that day, there had still been no case, and John was watching telly. Suddenly Sherlock looked up. "John?" "Hm?" John asked absentmindedly. "Is there wi-fi in here? Because I'm feeling a connection." John took five seconds to process this. Then: _"What?! _No, no no no NO, I'm not gay! I'm sorry Sherlock, but-" Sherlock cut off his ramblings. "John, it's okay. I'm doing a non-lethal experiment, as per your request." "Ohhh…" John was now blushing. "I see." "Right, thank you for your participation. I'm going to St. Bart's." Sherlock announced and swished off with a dramatic flourish of his coat. John, still slightly confused, just sat there and blinked for a bit.

Sherlock walked into Bart's, spying Molly immediately. "Molly! Are you an angel, because you look like you fell out of Heaven!" Molly choked on her coffee. "Wha-Sher-Wha-Eh?!" She fainted. An explanation later, Sherlock was still concerned. He called John. "John, I think I broke Molly." "Oh no, you didn't do your experiment on her!" "Well, of course I did!" John sighed. "Just hand me over to her. Molly? It's me, John. Sherlock's just doing a nasty experiment. Sorry if he…" "It'sokayIwasjustsurprised!" Molly said quickly. John sighed. "Sorry about him." Molly then handed the phone back to Sherlock, who then hung up. "Right, thanks for your participation, Molly. I'm off to the Yard." Molly just blinked as Sherlock swept out. "…Did he just thank me?"

Sherlock swept into Scotland Yard and went up to Lestrade's office. He was on the phone, and Sherlock waited. "Yeah, I'll make sure. Bye." He hung up. "Oh, Sherlock… Sorry, no cases." Sherlock then spoke. "Were you in Boy Scouts, because you tied my heart in a knot!" Lestrade looked at him for a second, then fell out of his chair laughing. Sherlock smirked as he gave him a hand to get back up. "Oh…Ohmigod…" Sally Donovan walked by. "Sir? You okay?…Oh, it's the Freak." Sherlock looked at her and said, "Hey, are you tired? Because you've been running through my mind all day." Sally just stood there for about a minute, then ran away screaming. Sherlock nodded. "Well, I think I've collected enough data." Lestrade was still laughing when Sherlock walked out. "Her face… Sherlock, her face…"

…**Yeah.**

**3 chapters and no reviews? Come on, pleeeease? At least please someone tell me if I should continue this story, please.**

**Prompts always welcome!**


	4. Regarding the Tapioca

**Disclaimer: Still don't own Sherlock.**

John was going home after getting groceries at Tesco's. He was curious as to why Sherlock had told him to get so much instant tapioca, but figured that it was a good thing he was at least going to eat _something_. Sherlock wasn't home when he got in, but Mrs. Hudson had said she was making biscuits so he didn't wonder too much. John just put away the food and raided Mrs. Hudson's biscuits, which were very tasty. He had just settled down to a book he had been reading and a biscuit when the door banged open. "Did you get what I asked for?" John could hear Sherlock's voice, even though he hadn't looked up yet. "Yep." "Good," his flatmate muttered and went into the kitchen.

When in the kitchen, Sherlock opened the brown paper bag he had with him. He pulled out a hand and a liver from it, and placed them on the counter. "Where did you put the tapioca?" he called. "Cupboard," was the reply. He opened the cupboard, got out one of the boxes of instant tapioca, and set about making some. After making a batch, he put on his safety goggles, grabbed his blowtorch and set to work.

John was almost done with a chapter when he started to notice the smell. It at first smelled like yummy tapioca. Then burning tapioca. Then burning flesh. Then burning flesh mixed with burning tapioca. At this point there was smoke coming from the kitchen. "Sherlock, you alright?" John asked. He went into the kitchen-not a great idea in retrospect. Sherlock had his shirt collar over his nose and safety goggles on his eyes as he blowtorched a human hand coated in tapioca. John could only think of one thing to say as he coughed from the fumes.

"What the bloody _hell, _Sherlock?"

Sherlock glanced up, then continued focusing his attention on… on _whatever _that was. In five minutes, apparently it was finished, as he turned off the blowtorch and set it down. He then sat down, and proceeded to poke, prod, stretch, and snap the dessert-encrusted hand, writing everything down in that journal of his-the one with bloody handprints. John sighed, gave up, and walked away. He _really _needed some fresh air after that horrible smell.

**Poor, poor John…**

**Prompts always welcome!**


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